The Mercenary (7 page)

out our room.”

She immediately curled into a ball and closed her eyes. “’K. Call me when room service gets here….”

CHAPTER FOUR

MARC SCOUTEDthe enormous cave for a safe place to bed down. Marezzo hadn’t had many tourists

since becoming the playground of terrorists four or five years ago. Still, he didn’t want to take

unnecessary risks in case some adventurous resident decided to bring guests to see the natural springs

and grandeur of the grotto.

In his job, not taking the extra minute or two could be life or death—and if there was gonna be any

dying, Marc thought it wasn’t going to be him.

There was only one entrance—the one facing the sea in the limestone cliffs. The faint odor of sulfur

assaulted his nose as he came across the small pool of steaming water. The underground spring that fed it

was several hundred feet away, so the water was pleasantly hot and the smell of sulfur not too

overpowering.

That hot water was going to do them both a world of good, once he’d found somewhere to stash their

things.

The small space he was looking for was well hidden by a sixty-foot wall of solid limestone—a natural

room of about a hundred square feet, tucked away and undetectable. Dropping his supplies on the sandy

floor, he began making a rough camp. Setting up a small propane stove, he poured bottled water into a

tin pot and set it to boil before going back for his reluctant partner.

She was exactly as he’d left her—curled into a small ball, wet hair trailing in the sand.

“Room service.”

She was out like a light. Briefly he debated waking her so that she could take a hot bath and change into

dry clothes. But she needed sleep now more than creature comforts. Picking her up, Marc made his way

back to their “room.” She didn’t move so much as an eyelash.

Stripping naked out of his soaked clothes, Marc turned down the flame on the stove and then dried off

with the clean T-shirt he retrieved from his pack.

Digging a depression in the sand, he laid down a foil survival blanket and turned to Victoria. Her mouth

was slightly open. She’d be pissed if she knew she snored. Gathering her hair in both hands, he squeezed

out as much saltwater as he could. Pausing with his fingers in her hair, he took stock of what the hell he

was doing. Suddenly he was coldly furious with himself, realizing that somehow she’d managed to bring

out a new and unfamiliar tenderness in him. In his line of work it was dangerous to be distracted.

She was trouble with a capitalT. He didn’t need to know her to realize that the very correct Miss

Victoria Jones was going to be a pain in the butt. That almost kiss on Angelo’s fishing tub was a surefire

indication that he was slipping.

She wasn’t his type. She was the kind of woman who wore her blouse buttoned to the throat, using her

clothing as armor. He liked to see a woman look like a woman. Slinky clothes and FM

heels. He’d

always preferred women who knew the score and accepted a one-night stand. Quick, satisfying sex with

no commitment. That used to be his style.

Perhaps the fact that he’d been celibate for more than three years had something to do with this

newfound touchy-feely shit. Impatient with the way his thoughts were going, he pulled off her wet jeans.

Her flesh was cool to the touch. And bruised.Very bruised.

Marc leaned back on his heels, frowning. What in the hell was this? His eyes quickly cataloged the dark

splotches on her smooth skin. The marks were purple and ugly. He swore viciously under his breath. The

bruising was not random. It was precise and systematic. And had probably occurred less than a month

ago.

A mugging at the airport? And he’d almost believed that story? Jesus. He reallyhad been away from the

business for too fucking long.

Stripping off the waterlogged sweater, he checked out the rest of her body. Most of the marks were

contained between her shoulders and knees. But there was no doubt that Victoria’s injuries had been

inflicted by a professional. A brutal expert who’d hit all the right places—ribs, kidneys, spleen—little

chance of death, maximum infliction of pain. Spider?

Didn’t make a whole helluva lot of sense. Spider didn’t dick around. If they wanted to hurt her, she’d be

dead. But if not Spider, who? He couldn’t imagine this woman had many enemies.

Unless it was the

fashion police.

He frowned as he used a T-shirt to dry her face. The bruise on her forehead had already started to fade

to a sickly yellow.

The fact that she slept through his touching her indicated just how exhausted she was. If she woke up

now, she would probably bring the roof down. He trailed the warm cloth over her damp skin and

couldn’t tear his eyes away from her small, full, perfect breasts.

Her pale nipples peeked through the soft fabric of her bra, and he immediately decided that she was dry

enough. Marc carried her to the makeshift bed several hundred yards away. She was so deeply asleep

she didn’t stir when he pulled a clean, dry T-shirt over her head. Covering her with another blanket,

Marc first checked that the plastic had kept the cast dry and was relieved to see only a little moisture had

seeped in the top. When he was sure she was as comfortable as he could make her, he grabbed a small

bar of soap from the pack and went to the hot spring, where he sank up to his neck in the steaming

water.

TORY AWOKE FROM A DREAMwith a start, her heart pounding with terror as she sat up. But not

her dream. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.Alex, oh, Alex, where are you? We’re here. We’ll find

you. Just tell me where you are.

The only sound in her head was that of her pounding heart. She tried to open her mind and concentrate,

but thoughts kept crowding in and she was aware of nothing but her own fear.

Frustrated, she opened her eyes to an eerie blue glow, then inhaled the mouthwatering smell of stew.

Her stomach growled. At least there was one body part that was in working order.

She felt a violent surge of panic when she realized she was alone. She glanced at the gently simmering

pot at the entrance to the room. Marc couldn’t have gone far if he’d left something cooking. Scrambling

out of the warm cocoon of blankets, Tory realized she was wearing a knee-length black T-shirt. Her

entire body blushed at the thought of Marc undressing her. Finding his backpack, she took out clean

underwear and dry jeans. Normal activities took twice as long because of her sore ribs and the blasted

cast.

With some contortions, she managed to pull on the jeans under the shirt. More comfortable now that she

was decently covered, Tory prowled around the camp. She saw signs that Marc had dug himself in for

the long haul. A large inflatable water bottle was filled and propped against the back wall next to what

looked like a radio. He’d used a ledge in the rock face as a shelf for other supplies.

Absently, she folded

the wet clothes he’d tossed in the sand, making a mental note to rinse them somehow.

The bed he’d

fashioned was for two. If he’d slept there with her she didn’t remember it. The last rational thought she’d

had was how incredibly lovely the cavern was.

She was dying to venture out and have another good look at the beautiful expanse of freshwater, and

maybe, definitely, bathe. Her hair was stiff with salt and sand.

The savory smell of the reconstituted stew drew her to the pot. It looked as good as it smelled,

activating her salivary glands and making her stomach rumble. Tory couldn’t wait. For all she knew,

Marc would be gone for hours. She picked up one of the forks and stabbed it into a piece of the meat.

She made herself stop eating when she realized she’d finished half the stew while crouching down beside

the little propane stove. She hadn’t even bothered to ladle it onto a plate. Obviously, adventure was

turning her into a savage.

There wasn’t much to do other than fold the top thermal blanket. After that was done, Tory laid it with

perfect precision on the end of the “bed.” She didn’t want to think of lying there with Marc Savin for

who-knew-how-many hours, wearing nothing but his shirt. She settled herself against the cool rock to

wait for him. Glancing at the time, she saw without surprise that her watch had stopped.

Ruined due to

the long swim.

When she heard something on the other side of the rock wall she froze, then quickly scooted on her

bottom into the back where the shadows were deeper.

Fool. The first thing she should have done when she woke was find some kind of weapon in that black

bag of his. There was another scraping sound from the other side of the rock. Her eyes darted to the

pack sitting uselessly next to the water bottle five feet away.

Someone was out there, and the smell of food would bring them right to her. Her hands started to sweat

as she heard the sound of a heavy tread dragging across the sand-strewn rocks out of sight. There was a

pause, then the footsteps came closer.

Tory inched against the wall toward Marc’s black pack. It was probably full of all sorts of violent things.

It didn’t matter that she would have no idea how to use whatever she found. Hopefully, it was something

big and dangerous looking. Keeping her eyes firmly fixed into the light, she reached out, her fingers

touching the thin plastic skin of the pack. Holding her breath, she felt for the catch and flipped open the

top. The metal ring clinked against stone. Her blood froze as the footsteps beyond her vision paused and

then kept coming.

She felt something soft and pushed it impatiently aside as her hand rummaged again.

Her fingers

encountered something hard this time. Hard and cold and mercifully heavy.

She knew it was some sort of gun. But since she had no idea where to even begin to fire it, she figured it

would make a better club. Almost suffocating on her own fear, she forced herself to take nice deep

breaths as she hefted the weight in her left hand and raised it over her head.

“I hope to hell you know what to do with that thing.” Marc Savin’s words cut into her terror and her arm

dropped. “Usually you shoot with it, but I suppose an exception can be made in your case.” He looked

like a modern-day pirate in his dark pants and shirt, his black hair loose and skimming his broad

shoulders. He also looked annoyingly clean and alert, while she felt rumpled, out of sorts and limp as the

surge of adrenaline left her system.

Tory glanced down at the nasty-looking gun still clutched in her hand. She was holding it by the barrel.

She jerked her hand away, dropping the weapon, and rose to her feet. “You scared me to death! Why

didn’t you call out or something?”

Marc poured what was left of the stew onto his plate. “I thought you’d still be sleeping.” He sat down

and dug into his meal. “Put the Uzi away and find the coffeepot.” She gaped at him and he added,

“Please.”

Digging out the battered pot, she filled it from the water bottle and turned up the flame on the stove. He

told her where to find the coffee, then leaned his elbows on his knees.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Better than I should,” Tory admitted, pouring the ground coffee into the container.

When it was ready,

she filled the two cups he held, then settled down to sip the hot fragrant brew. “What time is it, anyway?”

“After three. You slept for twelve hours straight.”

“I wish you’d woken me.” Tory clasped the warm cup between her hands, settling the container on her

drawn-up knees. “I had a dream last night.” Her dark hair fell over her shoulder and she set the cup

down on the sand, absently fiddling with the long strand. “Alex is badly hurt, Marc. He’s almost dead. I

can feel it.” She gazed over his shoulder without focusing, swallowing hard.

In her dream, her brother’s face had been beaten so badly it was totally unrecognizable.

The dream had

left her shaken and frightened to death that they might be too late.

“I’ll go in after dark and bring him out.” His lips tightened. “I did a quick reconnoiter this morning in

Pescarna. If that’s where they’re holding Lynx, then they’re doing a damn good job of covering their

tracks. It’ll save hours of time if you can pinpoint exactly where he is.” Marc swallowed the last of his

coffee and poured the rest of the pot into his cup. “Whatever his condition, I’ll get him out. Angelo will

be waiting for my signal.”

She didn’t like the way Marc said, “whatever his condition.” Her throat was tight when she spoke.

“How long do we have to wait before we can find him?”

“Can you give me his exact coordinates?”

She shook her head.

“How about a specific location?”

“Pescarna. I need to be closer…”

“No.”

“You brought me all this way for exactly that purpose.”

“That was before I knew they’d already gotten hold of you and beat the shit out of you.”

“Oh.” Did she think he couldn’t figure that one out?

“Yes.Oh. Can you make contact with your brother and get an accurate location?”

“I’ll try again.” She closed her eyes, using every shred of concentration to reach out for Alex. Nothing.

She tried again. And again. Finally she opened her eyes. “N-nothing. I’m sorry. He must be very weak

not to pick up my call. I need to be closer.”

“I hate like hell having to take you at all. Once you locate him, I’ll bring you back here.